


is it always just a stand in for a man that can't heal?

by Milzilla



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milzilla/pseuds/Milzilla
Summary: five times michael couldn’t heal alex + one time that he could
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 29
Kudos: 255





	is it always just a stand in for a man that can't heal?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurenkmyers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurenkmyers/gifts).



> this is my Roswell Secret Santa gift for [laurenkmyers](http://laurenkmyers.tumblr.com). the loose prompt was angst with a happy ending, maybe with alex getting hurt and michael worrying about him. this is what it turned into!! hope you like it, and merry christmas <3

###  **one.**

Michael knows what a broken wrist looks like. He’s intimately familiar with the way you have to carry your arm when you can’t get a cast put on it and every bump or movement is excruciating. He can see the too-thin bandage wrapped around the wrist of Alex Manes, and he might have dismissed it as none of his business, if it weren’t for the split lip that Alex is sporting, in addition to the careful way he places his arm on the desk in front of him.

Well, that, and Michael’s seen him come to school with injuries like this before. A bruise to his jaw. The slow shuffle of someone with a broken rib. Marks on arms in the shape of fingers. Alex hides them well but Michael would notice these things even if he wasn’t busy noticing Alex himself.

He catches Alex in the music room at lunch. He goes there sometimes to play the guitar when he needs the quiet and he wonders how many times Alex has come here for something similar. How many times they’ve missed each other by hours or a day.

Alex is sitting at one of the desks eating his lunch, left arm placed precariously on the table. He looks up with wide eyes when he hears Michael walk in.

“Shit.” He pulls his arm off the desk too fast, can’t hide the pain that flashes across his face. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t,” Michael says, before he can really think about it. “You don’t have to. I was just going to eat lunch. Uh, quietly.”

Alex stares at him for a long time before he finally nods. Michael lets out a sigh of relief and slips into the desk next to Alex’s, pulling out the sandwich that Isobel had forced into his hands this morning. He hates that she feels the need to show him charity, but his stomach had growled so loudly at the sight of the food that he hadn’t argued with her.

They eat in silence for a while. Every so often, Alex shifts his arm minutely. He doesn’t wince, just adopts a very careful, blank look, and Michael’s chest clenches at the thought that it's a practiced expression.

Eventually he can’t take it anymore. He pulls a bandage roll out of the front pocket of his bag, a new one that he swiped from the chemist a few weeks ago, and clears his throat. Alex looks up at him, sees the roll, then narrows his eyes at Michael.

“You’re uh - not getting enough support,” Michael tries to explain. “With that one. Can I?” He waves his hand to indicate the bandage roll.

“I’m fine,” Alex responds icily.

“It’ll hurt less,” Michael continues. “And it’ll heal faster.”

Alex looks down at his thin bandage again, his expression returning to that careful blankness. “Fine.” He doesn’t wait for Michael to move, immediately beginning to remove the wrapping from his wrist.

It looks bad, bruised and a little swollen, but it looks like it’s been set which is at least something. Michael doesn’t have to ask who would set Alex’s broken wrist but not allow him to get a cast put on it. He realises he’s staring so he scoots his chair forward and starts to unravel the new bandage.

“Um. Lift your arm?” he asks, then carefully loops the bandage underneath when Alex complies. Michael presses two gentle fingers to the end to keep it in place, which elicits a pained breath from his patient. As he keeps wrapping the way he learnt from the first aid book in the library, Michael wishes, not for the first time, that he had Max’s ability to heal. Even if it made him puke, even if he could never have gone through with it, he likes the idea of being able to take this pain from Alex.

He finishes the wrap and pins the bandage in place.

Alex places his arm gingerly on the table. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to conceal a wince this time, so Michael takes it as a victory. He actually looks a little relieved.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet and surprised. “Guerin.”

Michael shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that he doesn’t actually feel. “Don’t mention it.”

###  **two.**

Michael sees him once between Rosa Ortecho’s funeral and his exit from Roswell. Alex has been avoiding him all week, but Michael’s had his own shit to deal with. Sisters to console. Brothers to avoid. A hand to keep clean and re-wrap.

So it surprises him when Alex approaches his truck, parked back behind the bleachers of the highschool like before. He startles, dragging himself towards the edge and preparing to defend himself, only to sag with relief when he sees Alex walking towards him.

He’s wearing plain jeans and a button-up shirt. The piercings are gone, and his hair looks combed. The look doesn’t sit right, but Michael’s so relieved to see him that he can’t think about much else.

“Hey,” Alex says, stopping a few feet away.

“Hey,” Michael replies, voice hoarse. There’s a few beats of silence.

“Are you --”

“Did you --”

A week ago, they might have smiled shyly at one another. Today, they lapse back into silence until Michael gestures for Alex to speak.

He shifts from foot to foot. “How --” his eyes skip over Michael’s hand, resting on his thigh. “How are you?”

Michael opens his mouth to answer but he finds that he doesn’t want to lie. Not to Alex. He shrugs instead. “Hurts,” he says honestly, then quickly asks: “You? I mean, are you okay?”

“Rosa’s funeral was yesterday,” Alex tells him. “And my dad..” he trails off, lifting a hand almost absent-mindedly to his throat. He drops it, expression turning hard. “Guerin, listen--”

“Wait.” Michael pleads. He shits where he’s sitting on the tailgate, spreading his legs a little. “C’mere. Please,” he adds, when Alex looks doubtful.

He eventually steps forward though, into the space between Michael’s legs. His arms are straight and rigid by his sides, his entire posture screaming with tension.

Michael reaches out with trembling hands to unbutton Alex’s collar, parting the material until he can see the bruises on Alex’s neck. Marks in the shape of fingers, dark and angry. Alex stands perfectly still as Michael slips his hand, the one not currently wrapped up in gauze, past the collar of the shirt, fingers resting against the bruises with a gentle touch.

“I’m sorry,” he says. _Sorry I can’t take away either of our hurts. If I was like Max..._

“Don’t -- Guerin,” Alex stammers. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He’s talking about the shed. Michael doesn’t correct him, just nods miserably.

“It’s me who’s sorry,” Alex continues, lip quivering as his eyes fill with tears again. “God, Guerin. I’m so sorry.”

Michael doesn’t think he can speak without starting to cry as well. If he had Max’s power, he thinks, if he could close his eyes and feel his hand grow hot, this is one heal he’d risk the secret for. He can’t stand to see the marks that Alex’s father has put there, can’t bear to look at them or his hand or the unshed tears in Alex’s eyes

So, he drops his forehead to rest against Alex’s, holding him close and warm and alive.

###  **three.**

It’s the third time that they’ve done this, stumbled into the trailer at the break of dusk, panting into each other’s mouths and hands unable to keep from roaming, grabbing, touching hungrily. Michael’s ready for this to go exactly the same as the first two; a quick fuck, dirty and desperate, and then Alex will leave shortly thereafter. He’s not going to argue for more right now, not when he’s so eager to have Alex over him, under him, twisting and arching under his hands.

There’s a moment though, when he presses Alex’s hips against one of the Airstream’s benches, when he feels Alex wince into the kiss. They’ve elicited a number of noises and expressions from one another, but not pain. Michael pulls back immediately, gaze searching Alex’s face to see what’s caused the reaction.

Alex grimaces, looking away. They’re both breathing heavily. Michael starts to think that he might just push through whatever it is when he grits out through his teeth:

“It’s my leg,” he admits. “The prosthetic, I mean.”

Michael tries to even out his breathing. “Do you need to stop?” he asks, earning him a frown.

“No, but I need to take it off,” Alex explains.

Michael gestures to the bed behind them. He leans back against the countertop and watches Alex with heavy-lidded eyes. If Alex knows or cares, he doesn’t show it, just begins to methodically remove the prosthesis, rolling the sleeve down over his thigh. Michael watches and takes note of the mechanics of the thing. He calculates the angles in his head, combines it with what he’s read about prosthetic devices, all so he can try and _not_ focus on the fact that Alex nearly died. He nearly died half a world away and even if he’d been there, there’s nothing Michael would have been able to do about it. There’s still nothing he can do about it, doubts that even Max could do something for Alex at this point, if that was something that Alex would even want, if they didn’t have an alien secret to keep.

Alex places the leg next to the bed and then sits there uncertainly, jacket still clinging to his shoulders.

“Real mood killer, isn’t it?” he tries to joke, but Michael can hear the challenge behind it. He pulls off his shirt in one fluid motion and drops to his knees in front of Alex.

“Help me get these off,” he says, hands reaching out to grab the denim at Alex’s hips. He obliges, lifting his body so that Michael can pull the jeans down over his legs and then drop them onto the ground.

He’s watching Michael with something unnameable on his face but Michael doesn’t have time to think about that. All he can think about, all of his focus comes down to, getting his hands and mouth on Alex and reminding himself that Alex is here and alive. He came home from the desert and he’s _alive_.

He breathes slowly against the skin of Alex’s thigh after he coaxes both legs over his shoulders. He doesn’t shy away from touching Alex’s residual limb; pausing long enough to make sure it’s okay with Alex before manoeuvring it where he wants it, fingers caressing gentle circles while Alex adjusts and gets comfortable.

Michael takes his time, sucking bruising kisses into Alex’s skin and tracing calloused fingers over his legs, his hips, his cock, until Alex is squirming above and around him. Only when the first _please_ rips itself from Alex’s throat does he finally sink his mouth over Alex’s cock, the teasing mood replaced by something heavier and more revenant.

Later, when he’s wiped them both off, he pulls Alex’s leg over his hip and starts to work his fingers into the muscles above his knee. Alex opens his mouth, like he might protest, but that turns into a groan when Michael digs his work-strong fingers into the muscle above his knee.

Michael makes a smug noise and presses his lips to Alex’s bare shoulder. He knows that the spell will be broken soon, that Alex will make his excuses and head off, that he won’t try to stop him, but he can have these few perfect moments tangled up with Alex.

###  **four.**

When he tells Alex about Maria ( _they kissed, they’re going to try for a relationship_ ), Michael’s not prepared for the look of utter devastation on Alex’s face. The way that Alex’s expression immediately shuts down and masks everything, however, he’s familiar with.

“Okay,” is what Alex says and Michael’s reeling in confusion at the undertone of hurt in his voice.

“Everything is so fucked,” he tries to explain. “I just want something easy.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. “ _Easy_? That’s my best friend, Guerin.” Anger bleeds through the now cracked facade. “She deserves better than that. And so do I.”

_Fuck you!_ he wants to scream, but instead he watches in silence as Alex leaves. _What about what I deserve? My mum is dead. Max is dead. Isobel’s a mess. I just want_ one _thing to be easy._

But none of that will stop the hurt that he’s feeling. And none of it will wipe the shattered look on Alex’s face.

###  **five.**

It wasn’t meant to go like this.

Alex isn’t an idiot. Michael knows this. It’s why instead of storming Project Shepherd bases like they did the first (the worst) time, he has a professionally trained team and the backing of some General who he managed to convince of his father’s insanity. They have guns and plans and funny little earpieces that make Michael laugh (but _god_ , he’s just happy that Alex has backup) and none of Alex’s normal friends (or alien friends) are allowed to go with them.

They’re not required for simple recon missions, however. Meet and greets or location scouting that Alex begrudgingly lets Kyle or Isobel and sometimes even Michael tag along for. Michael loves to watch him work, loves the slow, simmering flame that’s rekindled between them in the past few months. For the first time in his life, Michael isn’t rushing towards something fool hardedly with his teeth bared. He’s taking his time and building the foundations for something that he wants to last.

The backup team doesn’t come on these missions because they’re not supposed to be dangerous. Which means that, when things go sideways and the art collectors they’re meeting with turn out to be alien hunters, there’s no guns and no plans. Just Alex, his gun, and Michael.

Alex pushes him behind a door and shoots around the corner with his other hand. His face is screwed up in concentration and it’s _hot as hell_. Michael tells him as much. He looks back for just a second and grins, sending Michael’s stomach alight with flutters.

He gets them to the car because he’s _good_ and _competent_ and he slams his foot on the accelerator, reversing them out of the warehouse at a frightening speed. Michael’s so giddy with relief and high on the adrenaline of a chase, he doesn’t get to be apart of dangerous adventures after all, that he doesn’t notice how tense Alex is until he pulls the jeep over to the side of the road.

“Whoa -- why are we stopping?” Michael asks. His gaze flickers over Alex worryingly.

Alex lifts his left arm up slowly, which has been plastered to his side until now, and Michael’s vision goes white for a second.

His shirt is soaked in blood. It’s red and dark and seeping through the grey cotton of Alex’s airforce shirt.

“I thought we could make it back,” he forces out, and has the gall to look _chagrined_ about the situation. “But I can’t -- I’m feeling pretty lightheaded.”

His head drops back against the seat and Michael is already scrambling to get out of the car, hurrying around to the driver’s side of the jeep. He pulls Alex out of the car and sets him down gently on the ground. He rips off his own button up shirt, leaving only the dirty white tee beneath, and bundles it up to press against Alex’s side.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he demands, “Fuck, Alex. I gotta call an ambulance. Fuck knows where the nearest hospital is.”

Alex grabbed at Michael’s wrist, shaking his head vehemently. “Can’t. Don’t have a cover story. Don’t want it to lead back to you guys.”

Michael makes a noise of frustration, his free hand (his now healed hand) fumbling for his phone.

“Max? Yeah. No. Terrible. I need you. No fucking clue; like ten minutes from the site. Alex took a different road than the one we used to get there. Yeah. Okay. Hurry.”

He drops the phone into the dirt and returns his attention to Alex, who is breathing shallowly and no long gripping Michael’s wrist.

“Hey, no. Alex. Alex!” Michael smacks at his cheek with one hand. “Max is on his way. You gotta stay awake. I don’t know a lot about bullet wounds, but I know you have to stay awake.”

“Gotta put -- pressure,” Alex supplies.

“Yeah, okay,” Michael agrees, like he’s not already doing that. “Tell me what else I gotta do, Private.”

“Captain,” Alex replies, brow furrowing in that adorable way of his.

“I’ll call you anything you want if you stay awake,” Michael promises him. “Shit. I wish I’d practiced healing more.” He swaps hands so that he can use his right hand to press down on Alex’s chest, drawing on everything that Max has told them about healing. His palm grows warm, the now-familiar glow of it appearing long with the heat, but he can tell that it’s not doing anything. Alex shifts underneath him.

“Don’t -- hurt yourself -- Guerin,” he says, screwing his eyes shut as he heaves in a large breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Michael tells him, feeling frustrated and useless and like he’s about to watch someone else he loves die. “I should have practiced.”

“I should have kissed you last week,” Alex responds, and Michael’s heart _ka-thumps_ in response.

“When everyone was leaving the cabin,” Alex continues, out of breath but determined. “And you stayed behind to fix the porch light.”

“I didn’t want you to have to get up on a ladder,” Michael reasons. “Not when I can screw it in with my brain.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” Alex says, more firmly this time. “I should have. We never have enough _time_. God, I’m tired.”

His eyes slip closed and Michael panics again, leaning forward to press his forehead to Alex’s, his hand still holding his shirt to the wound.

“You - you gotta stay, Alex,” he begs. “Please, darlin’. You promised you’d stay.”

“Sorry,” Alex says through a mouthful of blood. “ _Hh_ \- ‘m always leaving you. Don’t mean to.”

Michael closes his eyes and focuses on Alex’s wet, shallow breathing. He closes his eyes, and he prays.

###  **\+ one.**

“Ow, shit!”

Michael’s halfway through the door when he hears the shout. He quickly closes the door and deposits his hat, rushing to the kitchen, nearly tripping over an excited Buffy on his way.

“Whatsit?” he asks as he flies into the room. “Are you okay?”

Alex looks up at him surprise, blinking his wide brown eyes. He’s standing in the kitchen in sweats and an old grey t-shirt, his lesser-used prosthetic on for the day. He looks like a sleep-mussed dream and Michael wants to get his hands on him. More than that, he wants to gather Alex up in his arms and make sure he’s okay.

Alex raises his index finger, which has a small cut, presumably from the knife in his other hand, and there's a little blood dripping down.

"Oh, baby," Michael says, stepping forward and reaching for Alex's hand.

Alex shakes his head. "It's fine. It's just a cut. I've had worse."

Michael barely contains a shudder at the thought. He still mouths over Alex's scars sometimes, brushes his fingers over them like if he tried hard enough, he could heal all the old hurts Alex has.

He pouts. "Let me take care of you, darlin."

Alex watches him consideringly for a moment, then rolls his eyes with a fond smile. He holds out his hand towards Michael, who took it gently between his two calloused hands and turned it over, inspecting the cut. It’s red and angry, so he presses the pad of his thumb to the cut and closes his eyes. His thumb begins to warm, more than usual, and he _feels_ as Alex’s skin begins to knit back together.

When he pulls his thumb away, it looks as though there was never a cut there at all. Instead, there’s a small fingerprint glowing against Alex’s otherwise unblemished skin. Michael leans forward and presses his lips to the mark, letting just a hint of tongue tease against the skin, before pulling back again to look at Alex’s face.

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile. His eyes flutter open slowly, gaze coming to rest on Michael’s face, just inches away from his own. He looks down at his finger, now healed and glowing, and his lips turn up into a full smile.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Michael, you’re amazing.”

Michael’s cheeks heat under the praise and he shakes his head. “It’s just a little cut. But I don’t need to go and puke, so… progress?”

Alex nods in agreement. He takes his hand and places it over Michael’s chest, so that his palm rests just above Michael’s heart.

“You’ve been practicing,” he says, sliding his fingers outwards so that they rest on Michael’s chest as well. Michael breathes against the sensation, feels the warmth of Alex’s healed finger even through his shirt. “I’m proud of you.”

“It’s useful,” Michael says. He drops his forehead to touch Alex’s. “And it feels good. To heal.”

Alex reaches up with his free hand to cup Michael’s face. “You were amazing _before_ you could heal, Guerin.”

Michael turns his head to nuzzle into Alex’s hand and kiss his palm. “Never gonna let you hurt again, darlin'," he assures him.

Alex smiles softly at him, the kind of smile Michael had only seen fleetingly until these past few months, the kind that fills him with a gentle warmth and reminds him that he'll do _anything_ to have Alex keep smiling like that.

"I have to finish dinner," Alex says, instead of matching Michael's sappy tone.

"Hmm," Michael hums thoughtfully. He drags his lips across Alex's palm, breath ghosting along with them. "Can it wait? I'm hungry for something else."

Alex shakes his head disapprovingly, even while he smiles. "I'm not going to abandon dinner just because you--"

His breath catches in his throat as Michael's mouth closes over the tips of his fingers, his healed finger included. He knows it's cheating, but Michael swipes his tongue over the pads of Alex's fingers, drawing a gasp from the other man.

"Alright, a-alright," Alex gets out, breathlessly. "You've made your point."

Michael pulls away and doesn't even bother not to look smug. As he starts to walk Alex back towards the bedroom, hands moving to Alex's hips, he grins.

"Baby, I haven't even _begun_ to make my point."


End file.
